First Response

WANDSWORTH (10.20 a.m.)

‘Do you have this in a ten?’ asked the girl, holding up a black and white dress. She was in her twenties, with dyed blonde hair pulled back in a tight bun that only served to emphasise the crop of old acne scars across both cheeks. She had a twin buggy with identical toddlers, who were eating Mars bars and smearing chocolate over their little fat faces.

Zoe flashed the girl her most professional smile. If she was a size ten, then Zoe was a Dutchman, a flying one at that. Zoe was an eight and the girl with chocolate-smeared twins was at least twice her size. ‘I can have a look in the back,’ she said. ‘What size is that one?’

The girl squinted at the label. ‘Fourteen.’

‘Why don’t you try that on and see how you go?’

The girl’s eyes hardened. ‘Are you taking the piss?’ she said. ‘You saying I’m fat?’

‘Of course not. I just mean that you’d get a better idea of what it looks like if you try it on first. They can be a little tight. That’s all.’ She widened her smile and nodded enthusiastically, always the professional. In fact, she thought the girl was more than fat: she was bordering on clinically obese. To be honest, a high percentage of the customers who came into the shop could do with losing a few pounds. There were four other women browsing and Zoe doubted that any of them would be able to fit into a size ten. She worked hard to keep her figure — she was careful with what she ate and three times a week she worked out at the Virgin Active gym upstairs in the Southside shopping centre.

She liked working in Southside. When it had opened in 1971, more than twenty years before Zoe was born, it had been the largest indoor shopping centre in Europe. There were plenty of larger ones now, but it was still among the biggest in London, with more than half a million square feet of retail space taking up much of Wandsworth town centre. Zoe lived half a mile away and ever since she had left school she’d worked at the centre. The boutique was her fifth sales job in the complex and she was starting to think about moving again. She’d already dropped her CV into Gap, Next and River Island.

The woman was still trying to decide whether or not Zoe had insulted her. Another customer walked in and Zoe used his arrival as an excuse to turn away from the overweight mother. It was a man, an Asian, and he looked lost. He was tall and thin and wearing a raincoat. He looked around as if expecting to see someone. ‘Can I help you?’ asked Zoe.

The man flinched as if he had been struck.

‘Are you okay?’ asked Zoe. The man’s forehead was bathed in sweat and he was breathing quickly, as if he’d just been running.

The man nodded and forced a smile. He was in his twenties, with glossy black hair, a close-cropped beard and dark brown eyes that reminded Zoe of a puppy she’d had when she was a kid. It had disappeared when she was ten. Her mother said it had run away but Zoe had always suspected it had been run over and her mother hadn’t wanted to tell her.

The man walked towards her and she realised something was wrong. She took a step backwards and banged into a rack of jeans. She yelped in surprise and tried to slip to the side but he was already in front of her, blocking her way. His hand clamped around her wrist and she felt something click, then cold metal. She looked down. He’d handcuffed her.

He grinned in triumph and stepped back, unbuttoning his coat. Zoe’s blood ran cold as she saw what was beneath it. She’d seen enough photographs of bombers to recognise a suicide vest when she saw one — blocks of explosives, detonators and wires all bundled onto a canvas waistcoat. And in the man’s right hand, a trigger that he held high in the air above his head.

‘Allahu Akbar!’ the man screamed. ‘Stay where you are or everybody will die!’